SCENE I.

NAY, brother, its very strange you won't let me tell you the news.

I have no relish for news—Few old things of the world are worth much, and the new ones are worth less.

There, now you are out of temper—It's a strange thing a man cannot be always easy and happy as I am. I will tell you for all that; Louisa Rose is going to be married.

Louisa Rose!—to whom?

Guess.

I cannot rack my brain with conjecture.

To my book-keeper, Tilman Totum.

I am sorry for it.

His father has just left him eighty thousand marks.

I am heartily sorry for it.

Why, that's droll. I think it's a devilish neat thing—He means to set up in trade for himself, and he thinks Louisa will make him a very suitable wife.

Fie, fie!

Brother Leopold, you are a queer fellow:— why should she not?

A girl like an angel, and a fellow like a monkey.

Yes—but the angel is as poor as the devil, and the monkey is as rich as a jew.

She may starve with Totum, in spite of his riches.

Nay, how can that happen.

If the fool does not know that money is not wealth.

Money not wealth?—What nonsense you talk! —Pray what is wealth then?

The free and liberal use we make of it. Wealth, brother, is like a sword, placed in various hands. Fools are laughed at for their ignorance in using it; knaves, who grasp it, hurt their neighbours with it; wise and be­nevolent men, alone, know how to guard themselves with it, while they protect the weak, who want their assistance.

Well, if Louisa starves, it shall not be my fault.—I'll set her off well at least—I'll give her a grand wedding dinner.

I hope you mean to give her a portion likewise.

A portion! d'ye think I am gone out of my senses?

With all your money!

That all would have been little enough by this time, if I were as romantic as you are, brother—If you are so fond of the girl, why don't you give her a portion out of your own fortune?

It belongs to my daughter.

Ah—if you had taken as good care of your pa­trimony, and attended to the golden rule of multiplication, as I have done.—

I have attended but to one golden rule through life, brother.

What may that be?

Humanity.

Lucky, if you had mix'd a little prudence with it; then you wou'd have been always easy and happy, as I am; that is, if you were as sweet temper'd as I am.— But you—had not you happen'd to meet with a wife—

Let me beseech you, bro­ther, no mention of that subject!

I was only going to say that her fortune help'd you up.

Oh, Emilia!

Aye, aye, she was a woman of the right sort— She had plenty of jewels and cash. I wish she was alive again.

For heaven's sake, brother!

I am only saying that if your wife was still alive—

Nay, then, you compel me to leave you.

There he goes again. Was ever any man so uncivilly treated in his own house as I am! a silly fellow, making such a perpetual wimpering for the loss of one wife!—I have buried three, one after the other, without breaking my heart. That's the difference between Leo­pold and me—he carries his remembranee of his wife a­bout in his mind, and I carry mine in my pockets.

SCENE II. Another Apartment.

Let me go, Mr. Totum—I have no time for talking—My master has two Burgomasters to dine with him—and, thank heaven! there's plenty for them!—A sirloin of beef, roast fillet of veal, scollop'd oysters, col­lar'd eel, anchovies, and a furmenty pudding.

No time for talking! forty-seven words, four ar­ticles, and five stops. Listen! do you know, Mrs. Rose, —sweet Mrs. Rose,—that to-day is a day—a day—a—I cannot tell you what a day it is—

Well, and if it be a day, I warrant I can pro­vide for it—

Brief reply—credit words.

I always add a dish for every fresh guest, and for every bit of good news.

Good news—right. Attend, note contents—Im­primis, Mr. Van Snarl has received a snuff-box from the Minister—

What—the Minister of the Parish?—

Poh! psha! No, no, Prime Minister—Head-Clerk to the King.

From his Majesty's Minister! Oh! then I must provide a dish of Plaice.

In secundo, Miss Josephine's bridegroom is on the road.

The bridegroom! I must have pigeons and a cake.

And, thirdly—Mrs. Rose—sweet Mrs. Rose— you may take into account a second wedding.

A second wedding?—

Yes, note a ditto.

Oh, then I must order a goose for the second coarse—mercy on me!—there will be hardly time.

Dine at three—time in hand five hours twenty-seven minutes—no fear of deficit.—Enter items—provide plaice, pluck pigeons, gut goose, one hour, fifteen mi­nutes—dress, stew, and roast ditto, two hours, one half quarter, and three seconds.—Balance, two hours, four minutes, twenty seven seconds, and a fraction—post credit side—therefore listen, Mrs. Rose—sweet Mrs. Rose, listen.

I tell you, Mr. Totum, since there is to be a second wedding—

The second wedding, Mrs. Rose, depends on you.

The second course does, Mr. Totum; so I'll give another look into the larder—

Listen, Mrs. Rose, sweet Mrs. Rose, listen—I have placed a large sum in your hands—

In mine!—

The sum of my happiness—I must disclose to you the state of my books—my father being deceased—

Poor man!

Died fourteenth of last month, at fifty-nine mi­nutes, three seconds, after four in the morning—aged se­venty eight years, four months, two weeks, three days, fourteen hours, twelve minutes, and a quarter, ha!—

Bating the odd hours, minutes, and quarter, just the very age of my late husband, poor dear Dr. Olea­rius.

Left Tilman Totum, sole heir, eighty thousand marks.

Indeed! I am truly happy to hear it—Now I've just thought that we have got in the larder—

Psha! close the larder, open your ears and listen —I say, Mrs. Rose—sweet Mrs. Rose, listen.—Having now stock in trade, I mean to open an account of matri­mony.

Matrimony?

Yes—open a new firm, raise a new head.

Was that the subject you wanted to speak on? Oh, Mr. Totum, you do me too much honour.

I do you no honour at all; I only want you to lis­ten, Mrs. Rose; sweet Mrs. Rose, listen! I fear, above all things to cast up wrong; that, you know, to a man in business—say no more—hate a blot—therefore, without your consent, reckon nought.

Dear Mr. Totum—to be sure—but you know the world is rather ill-natured: there are some circum­stances, that should be taken into consideration.

Allow deductions—state fairly, what heads?

First—

Imprimis—

Difference of age.

Repairs payable by the owner; according to best of knowledge and belief, difference not great.

True, when one has met with hardships, one looks older than one really is. But, dear Mr. Totum, marriage is a serious step; when I lost poor dear Dr. O­learius—Heaven grant him rest!—I made a vow never to marry again.

Well, well, I don't care for your vow—that is an account balanced—credit by loss—but, sweet Mrs. Rose, my new head is yet a blank—suffer me—

Ah! dear Mr. Totum, we are poor people, who have many wants to be supplied.

You allow the demand then?—note consent

Dearest Mr. To­tum, you may command me.

Your daughter, I conclude—

My daughter!

Yes, Mrs. Totum, that will be—Happy, happy pair!

Mistress Totum! Oh! you want to marry my daughter Louisa, do you?

Whom else, the dickens! d'ye think I want to marry?

Oh, oh! Aye, aye! Well, that is nothing to me—you must speak to Louisa herself about that.

Express. But, if I may debit my head with the [Page 22] daughter, and credit by the mother's consent, that will be a pretty clear account.

A mother! Oh! to be sure—well, I have a deal to say on that subject; but I am in haste now— Well, Mr. Totum, speak to Louisa yourself; you have my consent,, if you can gain Louisa's,

which I am sure you never will.

Enough! You endorse the bill—she will answer it—therefore I remain, errors excepted, your obedient, faithful servant, shortly son-in-law, Tilman Totum, sole heir to eighty thousand marks, six chests of silver plate, one box of uncounted livres, stivers, &c. &c.

Dear heart! What will Mr. Leopold say to this? Well, well, as Heaven pleases: Mr. Totum is a pretty man, and a good man; he never fails at a sermon, and it is quite edifying to hear him chant.

SCENE III. An Apartment in VAN SNARL'S House.

Thank ye, Ellen; but did not you tell me, that Mr. Leopold heard you singing one day?

Yes, I did so.

And desired you to sing the song again?

Yes; twice.

Then pray let me hear that song before you go. I am sure I shall like it, if he did.

'Tis one of our village ballads.

Pray walk in, Mr. Adelbert; there is no one here who will not be glad to see you—is there, Louisa?

Your friend's generous heart is ever ready to welcome the unfortunate,

Make a curtsy, Louisa.—Mr. Adelbert is come to dine with us.

By your father's invitation.

That was very well done. You shall sit by one of us. Now, the question is, whether you mean to eat much or little, or to talk much or little.

Why so?

I'll tell you. If you have a mind to eat very lit­tle, and not to speak at all, you shall sit by Louisa.

I protest, I am at a loss to understand you.

Dear! She doesn't know what she means herself.

But indeed she does know what she means. Have not I seen him sit by you for hours together, without o­pening his lips?

Nay, now I'm sure you are mistaken; Mr. Adel­bert has always entertained me exceedingly.

Oh! I never doubted that.

Have you dropt a word for me?

Speak to the girl yourself, I tell you, Mr. Totum.

There's that cursed [...]all Pole! When he is gone—

He dines here.

Dines! choke him.

Heaven forbid!

Mr. Totum! I protest you have put on a new wig to-day.

Yes—I've raised a new head. D'ye like it?—Put it on in haste—spirits in great fluctuation—high, low— up, down—from fifty to seventy.

Ha, ha!—Why really—

Don't laugh; a laugh sinks me. This day, Miss Josephine, is the most awful day of my life—I am going to file off bachelor's account, and begin a new head in the ledger of matrimony.

Then you are going to be married?

Going to be married—right.—Oh, my Louisa, if I may speak the wishes of the heart!—

What, have you got a heart?

Only by debit—wants credit by ditto—I come to ask Miss Louisa, whether she will run the risk of partner­ship with me in a new branch of trade?

Why, Louisa knows nothing of book-keeping.

I beg you'll not interrupt me, Miss, while I am summing up my articles. Speak, Miss Louisa, without loss of time, may I flatter myself—

With what, Mr. Totum?

Transfer—heart and hand—hand and heart— please to accept a barter.

Why, I really begin to think you want to marry Louisa.

Heavens!

What means this pretty smile on my Louisa's cheek?

Pure joy.

Pure joy!—right. A laugh—brief—credit words.

Note consent?

Indeed, Mr. Totum, you are very good; but I am not my own mistress, you know.

Oh! I have got your mother's consent posted al­ready.

Yes—but my mother knows, that—

She is already promis­ed.

Indeed, Mr. Totum, I can never be your wife.

Never! Error in addition. Why?

Hold, Sir! Girls must never be asked why.

Account stands open.

To be sure I am not the youngest in the room, but neither am I the poorest—I fancy eighty thousand marks. —Oh! here comes Mr. Leopold; he will sum up better for me—

Your servant, Sir; please to check account between these ladies and me.

What is the matter?

The matter, Sir, is that—

Mr. Totum wishes to marry—

Hush, Miss, do not interrupt me, while I am drawing up my articles. The matter, Sir, is that, where­as—

What, is it a bankruptcy in the gazette?

Whereas, Sir, it has pleased Providence to close my father's account, and to make me sole heir to eighty thousand marks, I intend instantly, and without loss of time, to open account per matrimony—to take a wife.

Right.

His choice is fixed on Louisa.

Right.

But Miss Louisa—

Won't have him.

Don't interrupt my articles, Miss Josephine. Miss Louisa, Sir, draws ballance by refusal—won't strike a barter—but rather chooses to strike me clear out of her books.

Very right.

Right! no, I say she is wrong; her mother's con­sent stands to credit—

— Mrs. Rose here—

To be sure. Fortune leads to comfort.

Very true.

But love, not fortune should lead to the altar.

Very true, likewise,

So we are all in the right then?

All.

And I get no wife.

Take me.

Come, come along, girls: come, gentlemen, the dinner is going in. Come, Mr. Totum, you must dine with us to-day. Totum and I are partners to-day in good fortune. Here, girls, I have not shewn you the handsome snuff-box I have received from the Minister. Look at it, brother: Totum says it is worth two thousand dollars.

I wish you joy.

Dear uncle, let me look at it.

Totum! why, how now? You look as sad as if your father was come to life again.—What's the mat­ter with you?

Cannot you guess, Papa?

What, has Louisa refused him?

I supposed as much. Methinks a girl that has nothing but a smooth face to recommend her. and her feet under a strange table, might give herself fewer airs. If I had not the sweetest temper in the world—

You would on such an occasion remind her of her dependence on you. Fie, brother, for shame!

What, Louisa behaves like a fool, and I am to be ashamed! Mr. Totum, I'd have you know, brother, with eighty thousand marks in his bureau, has only to hold out his hand, and on every finger hangs a bride.

Aye, such brides, Papa, as deserve hanging.

Well, a good dinner will put a silly girl out of his head. Come along, children; where is my snuff-box?

I gave it to Josephine.

And I handed it round to the company.

And I.

And I.

But no one handed it to me again.

No matter now: Mrs. Rose I see is growing im­patient. The box will be found again, I dare say.

It must be found again.

Well, after dinner. Come, your guests are waiting.

And the soup will be stone cold.

Soup be d—d! If all the soup in the town should freeze, I won't stir, I tell you. I have never had my box again; here—here are my pockets; here is no­thing, and here is nothing.

Here are mine, to command.

"Sir, this brings advice that your father departed this life yesterday, the twenty-fifth instant, at four A. M. fifty nine minutes, three seconds, &c. &c.

Now, Sir, it's your turn.

Sir!

I suppose, you'll consent to what all the compa­ny must agree upon—only for form's sake, you know.

Stand off! You cannot be in earnest.

Joke or earnest, as you like. Gentlemen do not carry smuggled goods, I suppose, in their pockets.

If that is meant as a joke, Sir, it is, without under-rating it, a very clumsy one; but, if you are in earnest, I must inform you, that both my birth and character place me so far beyond this low suspicion, that I will sooner die than consent to give you the gross proof you require of your absurdity. I utterly despise the meanness of your conduct; and leave you, lest, by per­sisting in it, you should rouse me to convert the contempt I feel for you, into chastisement.

The devil!—we must not let him go—

Hold! do you know what it is to charge a gen­tleman thus, brother?

What do I care for a gentleman, when he hops off with my snuff-box?

He has not got it—it is impos­sible—

Ha! Louisa the defender of Adelbert!

Mr. Adelbert, I am sure, knows nothing of it. You may see that plain enough in his face.

His face! why, zouuds! you don't expect to see the snuff-box in his forehead, do you? What do you say, Totum?

Set down circumstances—cast up fairly—sum to­tal—the Pole must have the box—

Aye, that he has—but come—let us go to din­ner—he is not out of the town.—Plague on him, he has spoilt my stomach for to-day, I shall not be able to touch a morsel for vexation—Come—oh! plague on that Pole!

We follow you, brother.

Louisa, what say you to this? Is Mr. Adelbert—

Guilty of a baseness? Ha!—Oh, Josephine! my heart is ready to burst.

Why you seem very much interested about Mr. Adelbert, Louisa?

Who, I?—dear, no!—it's only, because—be­cause—

Because you can't bear to see innocence suspected.

Yes, that's what I was just going to say—that's it exactly.

Oh, nothing else to be sure.

No, indeed, it was nothing else. Nothing but— Heigho!—come, Josephine, we must follow the compa­ny. Come.

SCENE I.

NAY, nay—yet come in—this is a liberty I do not frequently take. I love the world too little to force myself upon it—but when a wrong is offered to an inno­cent person, a very hermit may find cause to leave his cell.

I respect the justice of your sentiments, but I ought never to be seen again in this house.

My brother has been in the wrong—the box is found—

Probably.

The lining of his pocket was unsewed—and the box slipped through it—

And from such a trifle a man's honour is to be called in question!

My brother is ashamed of his behaviour—he will beg your pardon.

I do not seek to witness the humiliation of another.

He has been sharply reproved by all of us— particularly by Louisa—

By Louisa!— Let all be forgotten—

The commission of my visit is then at an end.— I could wish to prolong it on my own account. Your manner has interested me—will you answer me, as a man, what I shall ask you?

As a man!

Yes, for I would make my enquiry as a man; who, though he shut himself from the bustle of the world, [Page 30] as I do, should never lock up the kind impulses of his heart towards a fellow creature.

I will answer you—

Your resentment of my brother's proposition was natural: but before you avowed that resentment, I fancied that I remark'd a certain embarrassment in your manner, which appeared to proceed from some other cause than indignation. What was that cause?

False shame.

In what could that consist?

I am poor—very poor—

Poverty is no dishonor.

Certainly none to me. To Poland, to my struggling country, I sacrificed my wealth as I would have sacrificed my life, if it had required it—My country is no more, and we are wanderers on a burthen­ed earth, finding no refuge but in the hearts of the hu­mane and virtuous.

But you are young, and industry might—

That has ever been my friend. The little ta­lents with which the affluence of my parents crowned my education, have preserved me from the extremes of indigence. The spirit of Poland has supplied the rest.

Your gains then are probably small?

When beneath the gilded roofs of the wealthy, the social banquet gladdens the heart, I take my solitary walk into the fields, and under heaven's canopy I make my poor repast. Such was my intention to-day, be­fore your brother unexpectedly invited me to his table.

Go on.

You know what pass'd. Had I submitted to the search proposed, my scanty meal must have been dis­covered.

Young man, we must be better acquainted. Yet that cannot be without more confidence on your part.

I am a stranger—an unknown exile—

Who yet chose rather to bear the harsh suspicion that wronged you, than submit to that pity, which; however painful to you, would have exulted in your relief.

Perhaps I acted from prejudice—but let me con­fess my pride. Had one contemptuous glance fallen on the humble pittance which I bore about me—had any one but smiled—

Had any one dared to smile, I—I would have resented it.

You are warm, sir!

My heart is so. Young man, since your resi­dence at my brother's I have marked you, and am per­suaded of your worth—and if you will accept of a small loan from me—it will come from the hand of a friend— do not reject it.

When I shall be unable to earn even the morsel which I concealed to-day, I will come to you.

Give me your hand.

Another time we will—

Yonder comes Louisa—let me see you again. At another time if the recital be not painful to you, I will request your con­fidence: and should it open afresh the wounds of your bosom, be persuaded that you will meet a friend, who will strive to heal them—one practised in sorrow—one, whose delight it would be to pour out the balm of comfort, and confer a happiness which he cannot hope himself to taste.

I thought Mr. Leopold had not been gone, and I—oh! dear me, you seem quite flurried—I hope nothing has happened—I hope you have not done any thing, sir, to offend my—to offend Mr. Leopold, sir?

Far from it, I hope—he came just now to con­fer favors on me, which I must not accept.

And do you mean to go, then—from—from this house, sir?—

—Indeed, I am sorry—

Do you take an interest in my fate, Louisa?— Beware of that.

Beware!—and why so?

Because poverty, which in general silences the feelings, is not always master over the heart.

But the poor have hearts like other people—and when the heart is good, why should poverty silence it?

The rich only dare to speak its language—A man like Totum dares to offer you his hand, he dares to say— I love you—

And what signifies his saying that? I'm sure I don't mind what he says.

It signifies something, Louisa—for the rich man is at least received with politeness, the poor one, howe­ver worthy in other respects, is rejected with scorn.

Then they who reject a worthy man, because he is poor, never deserve a rich one, I am certain.

Mr. Adelbert. I—I am come to beg your par­don—I have found—

I beg that not a word may be spoken on the subject.

Why may'nt I say, I found myself in the wrong? Surely 'tis not for the pleasure of saying it—

Mr. Leopold has explained all.

Oh, very well, and now I mean to make you amends.

Amends!

Ah, it goes against a man's stomach, to be sure, —but I must make you an apology—Leopold says I must, —they all say I must—It's cursed disagreeable—but I must make you amends—so you see I do it with a good grace. I'm come to tell you, that I am just sending out a ship, and you shall go supercargo.

Indeed! My gratitude robs me of words to thank you.

Will you go, Adelbert?

To gain an honest livelihood! to be restored to honest industry! Oh! heavens!

She will sail for Africa next month.

Oh! what, will you go to Africa!

for Africa!

You shall not be at a farthing expence. I am determined to do the thing handsomely. I'll freight her [Page 33] myself; you shall only have to purchase negroes—

What is the matter with you?

Humbled though I am, in poverty and in afflic­tion; harrassed by daily cares, and wounded by hourly regrets—the bread I earn shall never force a tear from the helpless, nor bring remorse to my repast.

So now I must not make him amends—I'm not to have my own way in any thing. What, then, you de­spise my offer? Go on with your romantic notions:— Here's a pretty couple of you!—one does not choose a husband with eighty thousand marks, and the other won't go to sea to make his fortune for life. I wish you had nothing but sentiment and romance to eat for a fortnight, and by that time, you, Miss, would take Tilman Totum, with eighty thousand marks, and you, sir, without a pound in your pocket, would be glad to sail to the coast of Gui­nea—Zounds! if I had not the sweetest temper in the world, I should be kept in a perpetual passion.

What agitates you, Louisa

You have a kind heart, Mr. Adelbert, for every one but yourself—You wo'nt go, then, to make your fortune? Oh, dear, if you had gone—Mr. Totum Would then have asked me again to marry him.

And would you have accepted him?

No, never—though he were ten times as rich as he is.

Does my heart deceive me, or do I read yours aright, Louisa?

What do you mean?

Were you ever in love, Louisa?

Lord! that's a strange question—

And I have perhaps no right to ask it.

Why, though you have lived a whole year in this house, we know nothing of you, to be sure, but that you come from Poland, and that we should hardly know ei­ther, but from your dress.

Would you listen with patience to my story, if I should disclose it to you, and you alone?

With patience! Ah! I wish you would try.

Well,—during the last struggles of our expiring state, though private and important duties detained me at a distance, I embarked my whole fortune on the side of those, who, even against a victorious enemy, wished to defend their native country—you know the result—my situation here speaks it—except a trifling stipend that is still left to me, I have no remaining possession but health, no hope but industry—Alas! my poor country!

And can you be happy no where but in Poland, Mr. Adelbert?

I might yet be happy—I might—I struggle in vain against myself—Reason forgets to speak, and my heart betrays me.

Oh, dear! you frighten me out of my wits—if any one should come—

Hope only can raise me from the ground—

Then I am happy—My banishment, my wrongs, my sufferings, all—all are now a dream. Will you indeed share my poverty? Oh! then we will make it a lot the richest ones shall envy. The dawn shall light me forth to industry, and the dews of evening shall warn me from my work. Love shall season our scanty meal, and the husband, returning from his toil, shall enjoy, in contentment and affection, a kindlier rest than lights upon the downy beds of palaces.

Oh! but I am not so poor as you imagine—

I am not the orphan of a clergyman.

No!

I have a father, and a rich one too.

Rich! then all my hopes of happiness are crushed at once.

No—don't say so: I am sure, when he knows you, he must be so proud of you!

The poor Adelbert dared to lift his eyes to the poor Louisa. The rich Louisa is lost to him—Honor is my tyrant—I obey, against my will—but I obey. Ah! Louisa!

Bravo, children—

when lovers are caught—

Do not imagine that—

That you are in love? oh, no—it's impossible; you are a great deal too old for that.

I should be sorry if you thought that Louisa—

Was in love? Oh! no certainly; she is a great deal too young.

I assure you that—

That she hates you: Is that the case, Louisa? You see she has not the heart to deny it: and you, sir, can you venture to confess?—

Who can look at Louisa without admiration?

Nay, that's a very rude speech when there's ano­ther woman in the room.

But to love her is a blissful privilege denied to me.

And why so, pray?

Because I am poor.

And I am rich.

Oh, you are in the right.

You are a good-natur'd soul, and you know what a plague it is to share a fortune with the person whom we love best, and so would save Louisa that trouble. Well, I grant you a twelvemonth for reflection; Louisa will then be nine­teen, and you may by that time resolve to accept her with the incumbrance of her fortune. In the mean time pro­mise me you will not take any rash step, that may make Louisa unhappy.

You shall dispose of me.

Oh, then it's all very well. Make yourself easy, Louisa: the man is young, and we shall manage him.

SCENE II. A Hall in Van Snarl's house.

I fagg's we've got a pretty visitor to-day, sure enough. Whod'ye please to speak with, sir, says I. Any body, says he. And who be I to say, sir, that you be? Any body, says he again—Odzooks, here he is follow­ing me.

Be pleased to sit here awhile, sir; and I'll go on without any body, to see if any body is at home.

So, Hans William, here you are—My father has an odd way of thinking;—I shall be more inclined to follow my own—Eh! yonder's a nice girl—I wish that may be Josephine.

—Good morning, young lady.

It is rather afternoon than morning.

Not where the day breaks so brightly.

Very gallant, truly—May I take the liberty to ask—

Who I am? —I am a queer fellow.

Well, but queer fellows have names.

Mine is Timothy Trifle, at your service;— "Plain Timothy with the men—dear Timothy with the women."

With all of them?

With all who wish to please me."—And now, what is your name?

My—my name is Louisa Rose. I am a poor clergyman's orphan, who live in this house. Perhaps you have business with Mr. Van Snarl?

But I have with his daughter?

With his daughter?

They say she has a great fortune; and, about six weeks ago, says my mother one evening, to me— "Dear Timothy, you are a poor fellow, and must make your fortune by marriage.

Very wisely.

Very motherly, you mean. There's Mr. Van Snarl, says she, your father's old school-fellow, has a most charming daughter—I dare say you must know her.

Oh, to be sure—I know Josephine as well as I know myself.

Is she handsome?

When she consults her looking-glass, she shinks so.

Is she like you?

She is not handsomer than I am.

I like that—she has no need.—Has she good sense?

Not enough to prevent her from talking.

Well, I like that—Is she kind hearted, good to the poor?

Oh, lord! the poor get nothing in this house, if I do not give it them.

I don't like that. Is she grave or lively?

As wild as a young devil.

Aye! Then she'll just do for me.

But there's one thing, Mr. Queerfellow, with your—I like that, and I don't like that, that's against you: —Josephine's hand is promised.

To whom?

To a young man at Amsterdam—one Hans Wil­liam.

Oh, I know him.—I'll rid her of that booby.

What sort of a man is he?

He? A stupid, pedantic fellow, with a full-bottom'd wig.

Oh, lord!

A shrill voice, and bandy legs.

Oh, lord! I don't like that.

You don't like it? How does it concern you then?

Oh, it's nothing at all to me, to be sure—only for [Page 38] my friend's sake.

So I had nearly betrayed my­sell.—Do you wish to see my father, Sir?

Your father!

My friend's father, I mean.

Hold, hold, a moment

Your name is Louisa Rose. It may be;— there's not a rose-bed in Christendom, that would re­fuse to own you; but deuce take me if I believe you. —Shall I tell you your real name?

Well, what is it?

Josephine.

And what makes you suppose so?

I don't suppose—I am certain.—You disco­vered the husband in my features at first sight, and you thought it your duty to impose upon me instantly.

You are a devil.

Bravo, Hans William!—That's just the girl for you. Oh, here comes old Van Snarl, I suppose:— Egad, I'll have nothing to say to him, till I know whether that be Josephine, or not.

Your servant, Sir.

Here's a pretty fellow!—My daughter tells me you desire to speak with me.

Oh, that is your daughter, is she?

Why whose should she be?—Next I'm not to be father of my own children. She tells me your name is Trifle.

You recollect the name well enough, I sup­pose?

Never heard it in my life.

When you were at school, with the old Doc­tor with a red nose, and used to steal peaches in compa­ny with Tom Trifle.

Tom Trifle!—Who is he?

My father, Sir, your poor school-fellow.

Poor! Zounds, Sir, I do not know any thing of him. If you have nothing particular to say to me—

I have a letter to you from my father—The deuce! I have left that plaguy letter at the inn.

There you may leave it then.

I'll run and fetch it in a moment.

You may break your neek by the way, if you chuse. I desire you'll never step your foot over my threshold again.

Stay, old gentleman—stay till I return with the letter—I'll make you remember Tom Trifle, depend on it.

Puppy! These young fellows, now-a-days, have no more respect for riches than they have for manners.

Brother, lend me the master-key of your house.

What is it for?

I cannot tell you at present.

Then I cannot lend it you at present.—D'ye in­tend to set all my doors wide open to-day?—First comes my daughter, "Pappa, lend me the master-key."—She is hardly gone, when you come, "Brother, lend me the master-key."—Every body wants me to lend them some­thing.

Surely thou don't distrust me?

I don't say that:—I know you won't rob me; but 'tis fair enough to refuse you for all that.

On what account?

who has got English patent locks to his doors, oh?

For that I have a particular reason.

Who sits whole days locked up in his room, eh?

I wish to be alone.

Who has a mysterious cabinet▪ in which no mortal has dared to set foot for years together.

That's my fancy.

Well, and it's my fancy not to lend you the master key. I have my particular reasons as well as you, only I'm not so unbrotherly minded; but that is no won­der—you have not such a remarkable sweet temper as I have—There, there's the key, but take notice, if I miss a single bottle of wine, you shall be answerable for it.

He is in the right—but I dare not open my heart [Page 40] to him. He would not understand it. Could I indeed find the bosom of a friend!

I hope I don't interrupt you, sir.

Come in, Louisa, you can never be unwelcome.

You are so good, and yet I am afraid you are not happy.

I was once happy: That's the proudest boast that mortality allows.

And why can't you be happy again? I'm sure all good people, who know you, must wish to make you so.

Few are the hearts, Louisa, that keenly feel for the distress of others: those few the miserable cannot seek —but when once they find them—Oh! heaven!

I am an orphan; and it signifies so little what a poor girl, like me, feels for the distress of other people, that I am afraid to tell you how many tears you have cost me.

Tears for me!

I am too young, to be sure, to ask you questions about yourself; but if I had a right—if I were your re­lation, now—your daughter, or—

Would to heaven!

Hav'nt you a daughter?

I have.

Is she about my age?

Yes, thereabout.

And why don't you let her live with you?

Dear girl, spare me! do not repeat that question.

Has she offended you?

Never.

Then you do not love her; that's a sure thing.

She is my only happiness on earth!

Then why have you banished the poor soul your presence?

Who says so? Those with whom she lives—and must live yet for a short time—are excellent people.

But they are not her parents. She does not find the care of a fond mother.

Oh, heaven!—She has no mother!

That's a great pity, when she does not find a father.

Cease, girl! cease!

Pity my sorrows

indeed I wish to share them. Do let me speak to you. Death has robbed you of a wife, but you have still a daughter left: she would be almost wild with joy, if she could fill her mother's place in your affection— Why will you not call her to you?

She shall come.

And, till she comes, do look on me as your daugh­ter—let me dry your tears, and kiss the hand a daughter should kiss.

Louisa, you have shaken my soul. I cannot ac­count for the power you have over me—Yes, I will disclose to you the very sanctuary of my grief—Come to my apartment an hour hence—It is sacred to sorrow— sacred, alas! have I kept it—nor have I suffered the foot of a stranger to profane the threshold.—For one hour adieu, Louisa!—Remember—be punctual.

SCENE I.

WHAT is the matter, Mrs. Rose?

There is a crowd about them at the inn: they fought with swords, as if flesh and blood were made of wood.

Well, but who are they?

Oh, I don't wish to know—somebody said it [Page 42] was our Polish lodger—but heav'n forbid!—a couple of wild wretches—I'm certain they never read my husband's sermon on duelling—the last sermon my poor dear Dr. Olearius ever preached—

Are they wounded?

Oh! I dare say they are both killed—they fought together, one like a cannibal, the other like a hottenpot—

Fine doings! five gashes, three side-cuts, and an eye-let hole—The Pole is a pretty fellow.

Mr. Adelbert!

The young gentleman wanted a bleeding.

What, is Mr. Adelbert wounded?

The point of the sword made entry by his wind-pipe, proved a running account in his ribs, and carried over into the heart— I think he's a safe man.

Oh, mercy! let us go and enquire about him. Oh, that he had read my husband's last sermon on duels!

Ha!—Louisa will now be mistress Totum—Ha! no rival now—The Pole's done for, Ha! Scratch out the Pole, Ha!

SCENE II.

No, he is not coming; I am safe for a few min­utes at least—poor soul! he is wounded, and perhaps he can't come home yet—he will want a great many things, which money can procure for him—so let me make haste and give him all I have.

Now where shall I put this note, that he may see it directly? On the table—no, it won't be safe—

Stay, this is not lock'd —he cannot help seeing it here, when he opens the box.—

Don't you let any body take you out, but my Adelbert, and when you come to his hands, tell him

there, tell him that, Now if I can get back to my own room before any one asks for me,

Oh! dear! hark I hear somebody on the stairs. "If Adelbert should have come back—No, it's impossible in this short time

they are coming" —If I should be found here—cannot I hide myself?— this door is open

So—I might have pass'd without the master-key. It is plain the young gentleman has little to lose, or less suspicion of losing it—Well, here is a man with whom I can hold fellowship—to whom I can at last o­pen a burthen'd heart—a comfort so long denied to me!

Spite of that noble pride which disdains to lie under an obligation, I will enjoy the plea­sure of conferring one on him—this for a beginning

where shall I put the money?— This box—Aye it is open

Eh! what is this! the very bill I sent by yesterday's post to my daughter! how can it have come into this man's box?—Could the servant I sent with the letter have opened it?—he is seemingly honest—nay I know him to be so—"Fie, fie, I'm ashamed of myself when I suspect an honest man." Surely Adelbert could not

— could not have re­course to means, I shudder even to think of!—at least 'tis ground of reasonable suspicion—Shall I take back the note? —No! What right have I to take out of a stranger's chest, a paper, which I sent to Frankfort fifteen hours since!—a perfect riddle! I'll leave it where I found it

my money too shall stay where it was—

[Page 44] and now back to my solitary chamber, till some fortu­nate conjecture shall make me once more hope that man is not altogether hateful!

Oh, mercy! what have I done? Instead of help­ing poor Adelbert, I have brought him into a suspicion of the basest guilt. What can I do! I must e'n go and tell my father who I am, come of it what may. Yes, I'll tell him all—dear, dear, I do tremble so! —let me get away before I'm caught again

Oh, mercy! there's somebody else—this time perhaps it is Adelbert himself!—I feel as if I had done wrong—but heaven knows my innocent intentions; I'll hide myself once more.

Eh! door open! now for a peep

nobody here—Pole wounded—stopt at hotel—post time to debit and proceed. Now, sure as my name is Tilman Totum, I'll balance the Pole's books—"if detected, transfer ac­count to my master, and declare I went by orders."

What can Mr. Totum want, I wonder!—

Light stock in warehouse—soon taken—"small compass—cre­dit trouble and thought."—Quick—first look over papers —Eh! no desk! no books!—a fellow of no account!— Oh! may be he writes in his closet—look into back shop.

I am frighten'd out of my wits—he does not perceive me, and I'll seize this moment to make my escape—I cannot guess his de­sign, but. whatever it may be, I'll lock the door after me, and leave him to answer for it.

Egad, he's a deep one. Where can he keep the balance sheet? must have private books somewhere—

—Oh, ho! here [Page 45] we have him—now see contents—now we'll detect the spy—

"On demand pay to this my order, the sum of three hundred crowns." Accepted too! As good as Bank—ah, your spies must have the wherewith

"Le—o—" What! "Leopold Van"—drawn by my master's brother! Zounds, this is forgery! "Aye, aye, this is the use he makes of getting his head into good books." We'll go over a few more folios here.

If I can barely find enough to hang him, that's all,

that's all the harm I wish him. Hark! did not I hear something?

I'll take a peep down the street, to be sure that Mr. Iron-driver is not nearer than I sus­pect.

Oh, here's a blunder; here's a scratch—Zounds! here's Old Scratch himself. Yonder comes the Pole; I see his head. Whip off with the box—Egad, the best way.—

— "We'll have a halter for you, Mr. Forgery, and then see whose is the safest head; your's with a rope round it, or Til­man Totum's with eighty thousand marks to credit."

Eh! how's this? the door fast!—O Lord! I am check'd. A plague on him; I hear him at the foot of the staircase— there are only thirty-four steps, two landing places, and a turning, between me and a sword through my body. Oh, the devil! here he is on the stairs. Lets return the note —

Devil on devil! the box shuts with a spring-lock, and the lid is fast. "O lud, if this piece of forgery is found up­on me, I shall be brought in an accomplice, and then there'll be a halter for me." I have open'd a fine head of account here. Where shall I put the note? Here is a trunk as large as our ledger. I'll insert it here; he won't think of opening this. "At least the note will be wrote off from my head."

Mr. Adelbert, your most obliged and obedient.

Mr. Totum, how did you come into my room?

Brought forward per door, Sir.

I left my door lock'd.

Closed; pardon me, it stood open, I swear; though there's no occasion to swear that, because it is true.

But we found it shut this moment.

Why, yes; while I was just looking out at the window, a sudden draft came in per chimney, and closed the account—closed the door, I mean.

And lock'd it too?

Lock'd it! Oh, perhaps it shuts with a spring,

like some other cursed locks.

It does not turn without a key.

No? not turn!—then it must have been an Eddy wind,—a sort of tornado—we suffer much by them in our trade.

And pray, Sir, what might occasion me the honour of this visit?

O Lord, Sir, your chamber commands such a fine view of the forest! I was just taking a peep, look­ing over your leaves—the leaves of your trees, I mean. Charming green fields, Sir! smooth as, the desks in our counting-house. What beautiful geese, Sir, on the com­mon yonder! good quills, I warrant; eighteen stivers per dozen. You would find them excellent for book-keeping.

Come, you forget that you are wounded.

A mere scratch on the wrist.

Scratches are sometimes serious things.

A little balsam will cure it; to-morrow there will scarcely remain a scar—

Now is my time for getting out without loss.

I am glad to find our friend so little damaged, Sir. I wish you a good afternoon, Sir.

Stay, Sir; I could not pardon myself, if I did not declare to every one the noble assistance I have receiv­ed from that gentleman.

Another time I shall be happy to attend—I wish you a good afternoon, Sir.

I'll tell it you in a few words.

As few as you please.— I have three bills to forward to Amsterdam, seven letters of advice, thirteen dunners, all for night's post; to be ready at nine, P. M.

As I was finishing my wine this afternoon at the Hotel, I engaged a party at Faro, which was at my side.

Yes, debtor's side.

I knew no one: a man in the dress of an offi­cer held the bank, so, without scruple, I punted high, and lost a good round sum. On this I wanted to force the game, and put an hundred ducats on one card.

Yes, a hundred ducats; exactly that sum I shall send to agent at Leipsig to-morrow; three notes ready in iron chest, No. 21, three months date, No. 29—

Well, well, but, my friend yonder in his bed­room, whose name I don't know, stood leaning on a chair, and observing the game.—You don't attend to me.

Yes—I do—Sir; attention is the best point of business—I am attending, Sir—to—

see how I can get off before I am caught by the Pole again.

The card turn'd against me, and I was pushing the cash to the bank; stop, Sir, cried he, take your mo­ney back; you are cheated.

Yes—cheated.

Up jumps the bank-holder, insults my friend; both drew their swords, and before we could part them, both were wounded.

Double entry—good check—very extraordinary indeed. I wish you a good afternoon, sir.

A plague! Here is the Pole again.

There, it is dress'd. Mr. Totum, be so good to lift the lid of that trunk, and take out a ribbon which lies at the top.

Sir! take out!—excuse me, sir, I never take any thing out of other people's trunks.

You see my hands are engaged. If you will be so obliging to tie the ribbon, which you will find there, round my wrist, by to-morrow the whole story will be forgotten.

I shall never forget it.

Well, if I must I—but you had better close the trunk again, sir.

What's this? a bill of exchange!

A bill of exchange!

Where did this come from?

As if he did not know where it came from —Oh! no doubt, arrived per mail—post to credit—goods delivered.

How came it into my trunk?

Oh, every body knows that.—When received, wrote on to cash, and then put under lid.

I'm all amazement!

Mr. To­tum, this must be your deed.

Mine, sir! You don't believe, sir, that I—

It is hard to believe, indeed; but all circum­stances considered—This gentleman shall judge. When I went out this morning, I left nothing but a few trifles of apparel in my trunk, and at my return I find you locked in my room, and here a note of exchange. It is in vain to deny it; you must have put it into my trunk.

Well, sir—if I must confess, I did put it into the trunk, but—

Generous man! how have I mistaken you!— You saw me cast down by misfortune, and wished to lift me from the ground. But this, sir, cannot be accepted.

Zounds! it is accepted already. You have only to offer it for payment, and then—

we'll have you taken up for forgery, and lift you from the ground presently.

Mr. Totum, I must insist on your taking it.

Take it! I would not take it at discount.

Can you refuse to take back three hundred crowns?

Certainly one would be very glad to take three hundred crowns—but—but—

It is your property." You owned you put it into my trunk.

Yes—but I swear I found it in your box.

That is impossible. I have not so much wealth in the world. If it do not come from you—

From me! I protest before this gentleman, I have nothing to do with it.

Then I must entreat you, at least, to carry it back to the person from whom it came.

That person is the devil.—I beg to be ex­cused, Sir. I don't keep cash there. I don't know the parties.

Sir, I insist on it.

I cannot, indeed Sir.

You offend me.

I am sorry for it Sir; but—

I beg—

I can by no means—I—I—

I wish you a good afternoon, Sir. I see the door's open, and so—egad, here's a bolt for it.

Do you really think such a fellow as that ca­pable of an act of generosity?

No—but the generous Leopold—

Be who he may, has chosen a vile deputy. But let that pass—one thing is clear—from what I have now witness'd—you are possessed of every thing that a brave man should have, except money. My purse is at your command—you have open'd my heart already; and I should think myself a mean wretch indeed, if, when the strings of my heart are touch'd, those of my purse did not instantly follow.

The debt that lies on your heart, pay in the heart's coin, when you please. At present I am in no want of money.

I heartily wish you were for my own sake. Do you know you have brought me into a house where I am no stranger?

As a merchant, the house of Van Snarl cannot be unknown to you.

That's not all: I have a close speculation here on the person of one Louisa Rose.

Louisa Rose!

Do you know her?

Yes.

You do! then there is really such a person?

There is only one Louisa Rose in the world.

I comprehend—Hans William, you are come here a day too late. Is she rich?

Unfortunately she is.

Unfortunately! for whom?

What have I said! pardon me, my friend. You have an honest open countenance, and it led me half way to a confession, which—

You may very safely entrust to me—Go on.

A confidence so rashly ventured—

Is, I own, as rare as the generous action, by which you have made me your friend for life.

I cannot resist you—yes, I love Louisa—the a­gitation in which you see me, will tell you how much I love her. While I believed her the orphan of a poor and humble clergyman, I flattered myself I might have ob­tained her—but, alas!—

What! did not Von Snarl acknowledge her for his daughter?

Louisa his daughter!

He told me so himself just now—

She said her father was rich!

I am to marry her.

You are to marry her!

I came hither for no other purpose.

And will you marry her?

What! and break the heart of a man who has risked his life for me! give me your hand.

If you can­not make an answer for me to that question, I'll make none for myself.

But I heard of a match that was in treaty for Jo­sephine.

Josephine! well, that's she, is it not?

I don't understand you.

Von Snarl has but one daughter, has he?

Did not you say Louisa too was his daughter?

Eh!—I begin to suspect some mistake—let us examine, if you please.

You came to this house to marry Louisa—

No: I came to marry Josephine, Von Snarl's daughter.

And who wants to force Louisa on you?

Why, are not Josephine and Louisa the same person?

By no means.

Then one of them has made a fool of me. Which of the two is the merrier?

Josephine.

Hurra! that's my girl then!—shake hands a­gain—the first was a sentimental shake, and this is a mer­ry one. We shall not be rivals.

Again I do not comprehend you.

Why, the truth is, I am very properly served —I came into this house under a false name, and the girls have outwitted me—Josephine suspected my design, and pass'd herself on me for Louisa Rose. I'll be reveng'd; tho' egad, I like her better than ever.

Then you know nothing of Louisa?

I never imagined, till this moment, that there was such a person in existence. I'll go down and look for that merry girl again, and if I find her—

One word before I go, my dear new friend—You perceive I am likely to have some interest in this house, and if it can avail you with Louisa, you shall find that the mark a ras­cal has left on your wrist, will be much sooner worn away than the impression you have made on an honest man's heart. Come along.

SCENE I. A Hall in Van Snarl's House.

MRS. Rose!

Aye, to be sure! Mrs. Rose must be every where at once! Well, child, what do you want with Mrs. Rose?

I thought I saw Mr. Adelbert return.

Yes, yes, he has come home sure enough.

And a young gentleman with him—

A young gentleman! —I was on the stair-case, with a sugar-loaf under my arm—so I stopp'd and made a curtsy. Mr. Adelbert bow'd very politely, I must say that for him—but the other young gentleman brush'd by me, as if he would have knock'd me down.

He was attentive only to his friend, who was wounded.

Manners are good at all times, say I.

Well, Louisa—

Have you heard what occasioned the duel?

Oh! it was such a generous action of Mr. Adelbert, to—

A generous action! to thrust a sword through a man's body! You have forgot, I fancy, what excellent things my husband said in his sermon against duels— Poor dear Mr. Olearius!

Dear mother, if you would now but step up to poor Mr. Adelbert—perhaps he wants help—you have several fine receipts for wounds, you know.

Child, I have a great many excellent wound balsams—but I step up into the young man's room!— You know before one has come to a certain age—

A certain age!—and what does that signify? I think at any time of life we should give our help to a fel­low creature, when it is wanted.

You are right, my dear—When we can be useful, we must sometimes disregard slanderous tongues; —so I'll carry Mr. Adelbert the black ointment, which stands on the chimney in my room—but don't let any body know it.

There's only that young man there—he won't tell.

Oh, mercy! if it should be known that I visited a young man in his bed-room!—however, I'll carry him the black ointment.

Now, my dear Josephine, let me tell you what has pass'd—but I am so confused, I can hardly speak.

For joy or grief?

Oh! for both. In the first place,—my father—

Whose whims begin to tire me—

I summoned up all my courage, and spoke to him—and am so happy—

Well—what has pass'd?

He promis'd to tell me all his sorrows,

Then I don't wonder at your being so happy.— Upon my word you are much obliged to him—

And he desired me to meet him in his room—

And are you prepared in what you will say to him?

No, not I—but my heart will be full—and then I warrant I shan't want words to tell it's meaning.

Josephine! Josephine!

Who calls me?

Oh! are you found by your true name? eh! who is this? I beg a thousand pardons, ma'm—

Ha! ha! fairly caught! Give me leave sir, to introduce you to this young lady. This is miss Joseph­ine—My dear Josephine, this is Mr. Timothy Trifle.

Sir, my name is Louisa Rose—

Another Louisa Rose? and yet I heard a per­son in this house, say just now, that there is but one Lou­isa Rose in the world—

Well, my dear Louisa Roses, inform me where I may find the real genuine Josephine?

What is your pleasure, sir, with her?

Exactly this—if you are both Louisa Rose, I have no business with either of you—but if you are both Josephine, I'm resolved I'll marry you both.

Is not this the gentleman you expected to-day?

What, my lover, Hans William? Oh, no, he wears a full bottom'd wig, has a shrill voice, and is bandy-legg'd.

He is very like me, for all that.

No. I have been expecting him this whole morn­ing, and in the mean time comes this saucy—

Take care what you are going to call me—

Stay, Louisa, don't go—not that I'm afraid of be­ing left alone with Mr. Trifle, but that—

I must go now, to the person I told you of— when I come back, I'll meet you in your room

And now, sir, I desire to know whether you are Hans William or Trifle?

Which do you wish?

Neither—Can you speak the truth?

Certainly.

Do it then this moment.

I am in love with you.

Who ask'd you that?

Have you settled, what day will be convenient for our wedding?

What, then, you are determined to marry me?

Positively.

And have you spoken to my father?

Yes.

And what said he?

He requested me never to put my foot over his threshold again.

Indeed! and what induces you to refuse him such a trifling request?

I do not—I mean to take him at his word, only I design to take you with me.

Are you quite sure of that?

Quite—

Without letting me know who you are! When [Page 55] a man intends to rob an honest girl of her name, he should at least provide her with another.

Why, I gave you your choice of two.

Well, then, your name is not Trifle.

No more than yours is Louisa Rose.

Why did you wish to impose on me?

I'll tell you. Your father and mine have treated our love a little too much in a mercantile manner.

Our love!

I did not wish to contradict my father, and as my heart was free, I neither promised or refused, but I was determined first to take a look at you. If I had not liked you, I should have been off again in a moment: but—here I am still—and, to own the truth at once—I do like you.

You're very flattering.

And therefore meaning to be a dutiful son—

Hold, hold, not in such haste—perhaps I may have a mind first to look at you too.

With all my heart—

The outside is well enough—but who will answer for the inside?

That you'll find out after the wedding.

A clear bargain, my father says, prevents quar­rels—suppose we agree to tell our own faults to one another, and then try if we can be friends.

With all my heart.

Well, do you begin.

First, I am hotheaded and passionate.

That may be cured by good temper on my part.

I'm careless—

That will be cured when you have a wife to look after.

I am vain.

That you must only be of me.

I shall be vainer than ever, if I win you for my wife.

Well, that I'll forgive—proceed.

That is all.

Oh, then you may be endur'd.

I hope so—and now it's your turn to tell your faults.

I have none.

None at all.

Girls have no faults before marriage.

And after marriage?

Have none but in the eyes of their husbands.

So we have settled our accounts already?

Hold! hold! there are a few other things to be discussed. Have you no bad habits?

None that I know of.

How do you pass the day when you are at home?

I have a foolish custom of my country—I like a pipe for an hour or two—

I cannot endure it—you must give up the pipe,

I shall find that difficult, perhaps.

As you please—I can play with my lap-dog while you are smoking.

Your lap-dog!

I can leave him when you leave your pipe.

I give up the pipe—

I give up the lap-dog; well, proceed with the day.

I love to dine at two.

I hate to dine 'till four.

For your sake I can dine an hour later.

To oblige you, I would dine an hour earlier.

Then at three—

Agreed.

After dinner I take a nap.

And I take an airing.

Without me?

I cannot take your bed in my carriage.

But suppose I don't sleep—

Then I don't go out.

In the evening I go to the club.

And I invite company.

Whom I don't know!

I cannot ask your club into my apartment.

Then I shall stay at home—

And I shall have no company but those whom you invite.

Well—so far we proceed cordially—but I have one bad habit, I own, not so easy to be got rid of— you will overlook it, I dare say—I cannot help falling in love with every pretty woman I see.

Oh, that's of no importance at all.

Indeed!—well, that's very good natured.

I cannot be otherwise than good-natured on that head, because I have exactly the same fault.

Eh!

I cannot help liking every handsome man that comes in my way.

What!

I like to hear men pay me compliments

Do you?

Swear solemn vows to me—

Do you?

To be sure—what is the matter with you?— You dislike it, do you?

Suppose we both leave off this last trick?

How is that to be managed?

Suppose I have no eyes but for you?

To that I consent.

Suppose you have none but for me?

That will be the consequence of the other.

Say you so? then give me your hand in earnest.

Yes—but you must first obtain my father's leave to step over the threshold.

Come along my charming girl, I'll obtain your father's leave, to do every thing that you bid me, as long as we live.

SCENE II.

An hour has nearly passed, and Louisa will presently be here. For the first time, since fifteen years have elap­sed, [Page 58] the foot of a stranger will tread this sancturay of my sorrows—for the first time my heart will open itself to sympathy, and the tears of another being will be mixed with mine. I feel myself unaccountably attracted to­wards that good girl. Hark! she is come.

You are true to your appointment, Louisa.

I have counted the minutes ever since I left you. What a dark and dismal room this is!

It wears the colour of mourning—In the first hours of grief, the eye feeds with pleasure on these congenial hues—but a real and lasting grief outlives the very sense of these vain distinctions—In my sight these walls are now a mere blank—So also to me is life— mournful and void.

You said your life was not always so sad.

I enjoyed its morning—but its noon was stormy— and now, its closing eve, shade deepening over shade, wraps me bewildered and perplexed, in cheerless darkness.

But indeed, indeed, I am sure your evening may be brighter if you choose.

If I choose;—Can I command the clouds that lower round my setting sun?

Yes, I do think you may. Now, pray, listen to me;—You have been very good to me—you have given me your confidence—you have made me feel as if I be­longed to you—and now you have done all this—don't be angry with me, if I speak what I think.

Be angry with you, my good girl!

Yes—don't be angry with me, if I tell you, that I think you have been unkind to yourself.

How so, Louisa?

By casting one from you, whose love and duty teach her, that her chief happiness would be to give you comfort.

I understand you, Louisa. But tell me—tell me, girl, wherefore you are so warmly interested in my daugh­ter's fate—You spoke to me of her before.

She—she is my friend.

Why did you not inform me of this sooner?

Because I know how earnestly your poor child sighs for her father's love—because I could find no rea­son why you should be so severe towards her—and because I wanted to observe you first, and learn on what account it was you hated her.

Hated her! tell me something of my daughter.

I can tell you nothing, but of her unhappiness —of her tears.

Does she feel such love for me?

Does she love you!—Oh!—Since she has been old enough to learn what happiness means, the wish to be known to you, has been the dearest of her heart. Her tears have often fallen upon my bosom. She has, many and many a time, felt bitter anguish, while she sat alone sighing out—"My father does not love me!"

She shall return to me—

Shall she?—shall she indeed!

Yes! Let her come! And when clasping her in my arms, joy, shall overpower my senses, and tears shall be my only utterance, then—then she shall be assured that I love her.

I—I hope I may believe you.

You have a right to doubt; but do not condemn me, girl, if I have appeared cold and unconcerned for one, whose welfare is so dear to me—such, as, for these few months past, you have seen me—such have I been for seventeen years; during that period, I have sometimes lived for men, but no one has lived for me. You, my good girl, are the first who have rekindled in my heart the desire to see my daughter.

Then blessed be the moment in which I entered this house!

I bless it.—Hear me, Louisa, censure me, but pity and excuse me. I was once rich, for I possessed in a virtuous wife, the only true riches in this world, Con­tent and Cheerfulness. When the Creator finished his glorious work of nature, he added its last bright ornament, Woman! I loved one alone, among all beings:—I had chosen her from a world, and from a world I would still choose her. The years of our first love fell swiftly into that eternity where she now resides. The birth of a [Page 60] daughter was the dearest and last moment of my happi­ness. Scarcely had she beheld the light▪ when her mo­ther died—

her infant cries were the dirge of all my joys on earth.

Poor innocent!

While yet Emilia's grave was fresh, I clasp'd her infant to my bosom, and flying from the world, re­solved to live for my child alone—She was the only treasure left to me on earth.

And why did you forsake that child?

Mark me—As I convey'd my little one to the fostering refuge I had provided for her, methought her mother's spirit beamed in her features—Oh! what did that look effect! The keen remembrance of my loss, pierced anew into my soul—I dreaded to turn again to­wards my child—her existence had destroyed what was dearer to me than my own—I entrusted her with those, of whose kind hearts I was well assured—Business call­ed me away—concerns of my wife's fortune—

I have never returned to my child.

Had she deserved this?

Day after day, year after year, have I ardently sighed to meet my child again. But she is well and hap­py—and what could my presence bestow? The sight of my affliction—of my misery—I strove to rouse me from despair—I turned from the grave, which had devoured my hopes, and sought for consolation among men—I told them my sorrows, and met derision—until at last I shut my bosom against the world, and fled, where only I could escape torment—to solitude.

Ah! I'm afraid you found little comfort there.

Such as you see me now possess. But here has fan­cy furnished me with ample food for sadness—here have I framed a sacred record of my beloved Emilia—here I gathered every remember'd object, that had been dear to her—yes—here her spirit dwells; here often in my thoughts has communed with me—Else, how could I have endured so much?

Wilt thou not tremble, girl? Yet, 'tis imagination fills [Page 61] the scene—all is but shew—the mockery of my heart's pangs.—

My mother!

What do you mean?—who art thou Louisa?

Your daughter.

Forgive me, my dear father, but—

Art thou indeed my daughter?

Oh! does not your heart tell you so?

Oh, yes—thou art—thou art my child.

My letters could not move you—I wish'd still to try if I could gain your love—Josephine assist­ed me—I pass'd here for the daughter of—

I comprehend it all—How could I so long deny myself this comfort!

Support me, my child—lead me nearer—that, in the presence of my mother's spirit, I may bless thee—

Pardon, generous man—pardon this intrusion— I must have leave to speak—you have given me so singu­lar a proof of your benevolence.

You surprize me—I, Sir?

Was it not by your order that this note was con­veyed into my room?

No, not by mine,—

but I guess by whom it was bestow'd. That glowing cheek, that down-cast look disclose the truth—the person, to whom you are indebted, stands be­fore you—

Louisa!—

Give me the note—Come, my children, let us hasten to meet my brother—he has long borne with my discontent—he shall be the first witness of my returning joy.

SCENE III. The Hall.

Well, Nicolas—are the constables posted?

They are ready, down at the door—

Down at the door—right. Let no one take his head out of the house; if I call, be ready, at a moment's notice—away—no blunders—good Nicolas.

Fine doings, indeed! Did not I tell you never to come into my house again?

And did not I tell you that I would come in­to it again? This is the letter from my father—

Psha! I suppose it's all about the red nose and the peaches.

Read it.

What should I read it for? I have told you al­ready to get out of my house.

I'll, go, as soon as you have read the letter.

Well, you shall not spoil the sweetness of my temper. I have read many useless letters in my life be­fore this:

"The bearer of this, my lawful son and heir, Hans William,

whom I send in good condition"—

Yes, I'm in pretty good case—

"By this day's mail"—hem—"Vander Hou­sen & Co."—the devil! you have taken me in,

ha—ha—I thought you had too honest a face for a cheat. Did not I tell you, Josephine, he was of prime quality—but Hans must not come near you—

give me your hand—you are a rogue and a wit; but if you had not been a rich rogue, like myself—

You would be a rogue and a thief—

And must never more have put my foot over the threshold—

Well, well, why d'ye put me in mind of that? If I had not the sweetest temper—

Brother, give me joy—Louisa Rose shall be married to-day, as you said.

Oh, she consents at last to take eighty thousand marks, does she?

She shall give her hand, as it should always be given, where the heart guides it.

And why did she plague me this morning with all that nonsense?—Only to put me in a passion!

Now, Sir, the constables are at the door—he can­not have negociated the bill already—Oh, yonder he comes—now, Sir—

Adelbert! a bill! what is all this?

Why, what should it be? Totum has a charge against my lodger for a note, purporting to be drawn by you, for three hundred crowns.

Against my friend!

Your friend! Do you know any thing more of him?

Yes, I know him for one who thinks every stranger entitled to his regard, and who will rather risk his life, than suffer an honest man to become the dupe of a knave. Perhaps I may find

an opportunity of doing as much for him.

Here is the note, written by myself—you found it in the hands of a man of integrity, and, as a proof of my esteem for him, I mean to make him heir to my whole fortune.

You do!—and pray what becomes of your daughter?

Behold her.

In the fond and artless affections of her [Page 64] mind, while I recognized the image of her whom I ado­red, I read likewise, in forcible characters, my own duty —yes—this is my daughter, and, if I guess the heart a­right—this is my son.

An outcast!

You have found an asylum here. Accept her, Adelbert: with my whole heart I give her to you.

Oh, what a fine sermon my poor dear Dr. Olearius wou'd have made on this occasion!

So! I shall give Louisa a wedding-dinner, as I said—I'm right this time, in spite of you all.

And if this be the case, I may as well make the constables void.—Hymen has protested my draught: and, for fear the Pole should make a scratch in my ledg­er, I won't leave him a single side for a memorandum sheet.—Hang Hymen!—Plague light on the Pole!

The indulgence of a gloomy temper has stolen from my life its sweetest hours, and drawn sighs from the bosom of innocence—my child, forgive me!—Amid tears of anguish and despair you were baptised.—Amid those of repentance and joy, receive a father's blessing!—"Con­vinced of my error, I will now return with cheerfulness to the world, and bear, without repining, the lot which heaven has assigned me.—The present emotions of my heart instruct me, that there is no cordial for a parent's sorrows beyond the virtuous affection of A DAUGHTER."